


Rust

by LukasBondevik



Category: Princess Tutu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:56:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LukasBondevik/pseuds/LukasBondevik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get - only with what you are expecting to give - which is everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rust

The beginning was some of the best days of Fakir's life. Every day he would go see Duck at the lake, his pen, chair, papers and fishing pole in tow. Every day she would run up to him and he would pick her up and hold her tightly, happy to see her as if it had been years and years since he'd last been near her. It was as perfect as could be under the circumstances. All in all, it was all right. It didn't matter to him that she was a bird, he would see her every day, and it would be wonderful.

He tried a few times to write her human once more, or to write himself a bird to be with her, but none of it ever came true. It was all fruitless, and often, it frustrated him to the point where he wouldn't write for weeks on end. But she would always be there, for all the good times and the bad, whether he was angry or happy, sad or lonely, Duck was there with him. In a way, it was almost as if she had sworn to never leave his side, because she never did for more than a night.

Sometimes she slept at the lake, and sometimes she slept in his room. Sometimes he slept at home, and sometimes he'd stretch out beneath the stars, Duck asleep on his stomach. Those days would always be the ones he would treasure forever. Those, and the few days he had with Duck as a girl; though those are fraught with heartache and uncertainty, with fear and worry, they were the only memories he had of her human.

Fakir refused to fall in love with anyone else, to even give another human girl a chance. He'd had women who had confessed their affections to him, but he gently turned them down. He couldn't let Duck go. As the years passed, and she got older, he wouldn't even leave his room without her. She was frail and elderly, where he was not even forty yet. It broke his heart to know that her lifespan was almost over, and his was still just beginning. "I love you Duck," Fakir told her, stroking her wing with his finger. "I won't ever leave you."

Duck nodded at him, resting her head in his hand. "I wish I knew what you were thinking," he sighed, shaking his head. "I wish I knew what to say to you, to help you if you're sad, if you're confused, if you hate me for everything I've done trying to stay with you." Duck shook her head and climbed into Fakir's lap, sitting there in almost a defiant way, as if trying to show him that she approved of everything he's done to take care of her. Duck nudged his hand with her beak and he smiled at her, holding her close to his chest.

"I know you love me too, Duck," he said with a smile, and she nodded vigorously, trying to get her point across. "I just want us both to live as happily as possible the way we are, as long as we can." He pressed his lips to the top of her head and put her back down on the floor as he got up and stretched his arms. "Let's have some dinner." Duck nodded and followed him out into the kitchen. Fakir's mind was still heavy, watching her eat slowly and he bit his lip. He didn't know what to do, how to help her. He should have known fifteen years ago when he swore to never leave her side that this was the outcome. Not that it would have changed his mind, but he may have been mentally prepared for it.

Duck was going to die much sooner than he was. Fakir shook his head. The maximum lifespan of a duck is about twenty years, and Duck couldn't have been too old when he first met her. He pressed his hand against his forehead, suddenly resisting the urge to cry. Duck watched him with her big blue eyes, and he knew she was wondering what was wrong, but he couldn't tell her, he didn't have the heart to. Once more, he would bear a burden alone.

Fakir awoke one morning, his back sore, but he ignored it, looking towards where Duck lay, still fast asleep. He smiled fondly, and stood up quietly to go to the kitchen to get her some bread. "Duck," he said, gently nudging her with his finger. "Duck, want some breakfast?" She did not awaken, and Fakir furrowed his brow, pushing her a little harder with his hand. "Are you sick? C'mon Duck, wake up." Still, the girl did not move, and Fakir felt his heart stop for a full moment, his mind in a whirlwind of motion, trying to repress the agony that was soon to come. "This isn't funny, Duck," he said, trying to hide the pain from his voice, the bread crumpling to crumbs in his fist.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his knees suddenly weak, feeling as though the world had finally come to an end. "Please, wake up Duck," he begged, watching through his tears as the girl lay still, silent. Fakir never knew a pain such as this, his heart feeling like it was getting ripped from his body and torn into pieces. He clutched at his chest, and stood up, knocking everything off of his dresser. The pen cup and books fell to the floor with several thuds, the fragile ink wells breaking on impact. He threw a ream of paper through his window, sending it into the channel of water behind his home. Glass littered the floor of his bedroom, black ink splattered across everything. His chair was splintered, his fishing pole snapped in half and tossed aside.

"I can't do this without you Duck," he whispered, falling to his knees. "I can't live this life without you."

Fakir buried Duck near the shores of the lake. It was her home, and the home of some of his favorite memories with her, and it felt like the best place to do it. And so he sat there, day after day, his heart broken into a thousand little pieces, knowing he'd have to live the rest of his life alone. Something caught in his chest, and Fakir let himself cry, clenching the dirt above where the only girl he'd ever loved lay dead.

Beautiful, innocent, selfless Duck, after it was all said and done, still recieved the raw end of the deal. Regardless of not vanishing into a speck of light, she still managed to be stuck as a bird for the rest of her life instead of a girl.

Many years passed after that, and Fakir became more of a recluse that he had before. Rarely did he leave his house, rarely did he speak to anyone at all. His life felt meaningless without Duck lighting up his existence. His house was empty, his heart was bare and Fakir could hardly make it through each day so alone. Sometimes he sat listlessly, trying to write a story where Duck came back to him, as a girl, ready for a life together that he had dreamed of. But naturally it could not come true. Not even Spinners could bring back the dead.

There were several times he would catch himself calling out to Duck, calling her for dinner, asking her what she thought of something he wrote. Many times he looked around at his bed, expecting to see her little yellow face sitting there patiently, waiting for him to finish what he was doing so they could go to the lake together. He'd get himself something to eat, and pull a small piece for Duck out as well, and left it out until he realized it would go uneaten.

Fakir found himself on a downward spiral of bad health, each day becoming more difficult to go through without feeling sick, without being bedridden with coughs and fevers. Doctors had no idea what was wrong, but Fakir figured it was the symptoms of a broken heart. Soon, he just learned to accept that he was ill beyond the help of any professional, and stopped wasting his time trying to make himself better.

It did not take long before Fakir felt worse than ever. His body felt lifeless, he could hardly move to eat anything. His fever was rising, and his coughing was almost unbearable. He wondered, really, if this was some sort of punishment for something. For not dying when he was supposed to perhaps. He should have died by the Raven's claws, so now he was being punished by losing Duck, by lying on his death bed at barely forty five years old, an invalid with symptoms generally attributed to those fifteen, twenty years old than he.

He heard his front door click open and a voice called out to him, saying "Fakir?" For a moment, he thought he was dreaming as a pair of topaz eyes, framed with messy white hair came into view, and he shook his head. The illusion did not dissipate, and Fakir realized that Mytho hadn't aged a single day.

"You didn't have... to come," Fakir breathed to Mytho, closing his eyes and turning away from him. The prince sat beside his closest friend, taking Fakir's hand in his own. He looked surprised, his face still the same as he had always been, still so young and handsome and flawless.

Mytho shook his head, his smile still soft and caring. "Of course I did my knight, my friend," he replied seriously, gently pushing Fakir's silver hair from his face. "Even if you had asked me not to be here, I still would be by your side until the very end."

Fakir chuckled, and it was accompanied by a violent cough. "I envy you Mytho, you have no clue how much I envy you." Mytho watched Fakir for a moment, waiting for him to continue. "You got everything in the end. The girl you love, your happy ending. You'll have Rue forever, and I've already lost Duck. I have no happy ending." He was silent, watching his bedridden knight with an ache of sorrow in his heart.

"I'm sorry," he replied softly, looking at the floor. "I would do anything for you, Fakir, anything at all."

Fakir turned onto his side, away from Mytho. "Give Rue my best," he said bitterly, his voice scratchy and hoarse. Mytho did not budge from his seat, even after Fakir told him to leave, knowing that the knight was simply too proud to want to be seen in this state. He stayed for several days, helping Fakir eat and move about his house, and despite all the aid that the prince offered, Fakir did not get better.

Mytho awoke one morning, and saw that Fakir had vanished from his bed. Worried, he hurried outside without even bothering to get dressed, only in his dress shirt and bare feet. "Fakir?" Mytho called out, the cold early morning air making him shiver. He hurried down the dirt path as quickly as he could, following it to the place he knew so well. It was the only place that he figured that Fakir would go when he was so ill. He spotted his friend, on the ground several feet back from the pond, near a small patch of yellow, blue and orange pansies that grew so beautifully.

Kneeling down, Mytho reached out to touch Fakir's shoulder. "Fakir?" The man did not move, and Mytho closed his eyes, his face looking up towards the heavens as it began to rain.

\--

Fakir's eyes shot open. He was comfortable, like a warm spring day, and he was lying on something soft and sort of itchy. Everything felt serene to him for some reason. Happy. Like nothing could ever go wrong. He sat up, and put his hand to his head, the vestiges of sleep flittering away like petals in the breeze. Blinking his eyes, he finally realized where he was, and looked around in surprise. The duck pond was lovely, the water perfect, and cat tails waving in the gentle breeze and Fakir felt like his heart was going to explode. He moaned, burying his face in his hands. It was a beautiful scene, but it would never be perfect. Not without her.

He wiped his face off, angry at himself, wondering why on earth he had ended up here of all places. Wasn't he supposed to be ill? On his death bed? With Mytho by his side, still young, still so young, the fairy tale prince? The Mytho that would have his Rue forever, always young inside of the story? Though, admittedly, Fakir could not be cross with Mytho; the only person in the world that would still come to his aid when he needed him the most.

Fakir looked at his hands for a long moment, noticing something was different about them. He furrowed his brow and then audibly gasped. The skin was perfect, flawless save for a thin scar on the back of his right hand, and he jumped up, looking into the water of the lake. He was young again. His hair was black, no gray to be seen, no wrinkles on his face, his eyes full of that deep green hue he'd had as a teenager. Mouth agape, Fakir stood up, pulling himself for the first time on so many years into his three fourths pointe, the muscle memory there, working, knowing that at his heart Fakir was still a dancer.

His hands were in the air, and he closed his eyes, feeling so at peace with himself for the first time in so many years. He put his feet both flat on the ground, his arms hanging loosely at his side. What was all this? What was going on? He wasn't happy, no, but he was merely content. There was nothing here that could harm him, nothing here that could make him suffer, make him sad. He took easy, light steps out onto the dock in the lake, the feeling of being young once more washing over him in waves.

He heard a thudding as someone ran towards him and Fakir was snapped out of his musings. He had no time to turn around before he was hugged around the waist and fell from the dock into the water with a terrific splash. He broke the surface of the pond, completely soaked, and stood up, pushing the wet strands from his face. He looked around for the person who was there, wondering what was going on.

He spun to the side and saw the bright smile of a girl with red hair, her eyes bluer than any sky. His eyes widened in shock and his heart ached for a moment, unable to believe his eyes. he reached out for her, knowing that she must be an illusion, that she would vanish when he tried to get near her. She held her own hand out, and his fingers brushed against her soft skin, a tangible part of her, real, and he tugged her into his arms. A single tear dripped from those blues eyes, and Fakir held her tightly, his face in her hair, his heart soaring in his chest, unable to believe that he was really, truly holding her once again.


End file.
